


Cross my heart

by HyFrLarry1224



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, AngelCastiel, Angst, Captured, CrowleysTheKingOfHell, DemonSam, Destiel - Freeform, EnslavedCastiel, F/M, HunterDean, Hunters, ImpliedStripper, M/M, MentionsOfAbuse, Multi, SexaulAbuse, Slaves, UsedForSexualPleasure, slowburn, supernaturalfandom, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 22:29:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17455481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyFrLarry1224/pseuds/HyFrLarry1224
Summary: Angels are hunted and used as slaves, treated as nothing and most times were used for pleasure. John Winchester was the best hunter on the planet, working alongside his two young sons while trying to teach them the ropes on how to be a good hunter. He caught Castiel and two of his siblings, killing their parents in the process to assure no revenge would be taken on him. Trading the angels to the underworlds quickly rising demon, John uses the partnership to his advantage and builds a name for himself, soon specializing in the trading and dealing of exotic creatures. Now with John Winchester dead, it’s up to Dean to fix his father's mistakes.Free those captured;All because a blue eyed angel never left his mind.





	Cross my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, loves! Yes, that's right, i'm back again with a short story that will only be a few chapters long, but will totally be worth it. This originally started out as an rp, and after some discussion, we both decided it had so much more potential as an actual story... So, here you are. XD I hope you enjoy it so far, and stay tuned for the next chapter.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. ;)
> 
> Much love, 
> 
> Xx
> 
> (Any and all mistakes are made by me and my co-author, who I will be tagging in a later chapter. Excuse the mistakes, and feel free to point out which ones you catch. This chapter is unedited, so beware.)

Castiel watches a spider crawl slowly up his wall and out through a small crack near the grimy window and he can't help but feel slightly envious of it. Of its ability to leave this place at its own free will. He can't remember the last time that he was actually outside of these walls. When he was allowed to stretch his wings fully. When he wasn't used at the whim of Crowley for whatever sick pleasure he, or whoever pays enough, has.   
  
No. No, that's a lie.   
  
He'll never forget the day that Anna, Gabriel, and himself were captured. Trapped by a 'hunter'. The man had called them dangerous, and hadn't that been nearly laughable? It might have been if it hadn't been so very terrible. His family was on the run, not hurting anyone at all. Nowhere even near any humans. They were _ peaceful _ , and had been trapped, their wings bound, and himself and his siblings sold. His parents... Well, they at least didn't have to have to go through the hell that their children have.   
  
Castiel had tried to run, tried to escape early, but he hadn't gotten far, not with the binding still on his wings, heavy and weighing him down. That night in his cell he'd received several bronze colored feathers, broken and splattered with blood. They were Anna's and several of the longer ones still had skin attached. It was clearly a warning. Try again and see what we send next.   
  
The next time he fought, it was Gabriel that was punished, nearly killed by holy oil and an angel blade dragging over his back right where his skin meets feathers. Cas had begged with tears in his eyes to be the one punished. It was him that had fought and his siblings shouldn't be hurt for it.   
  
That's when he was told that they're only being kept alive to keep him in line. To be used to make sure he doesn't act out. That it's him they want to use. Display. Sell. That had broken him, and he'd given in. He couldn't be the cause of his family's pain. Not anymore.   
  
That had been  _ years  _ ago, and he hadn't seen Anna or Gabriel since. He doesn't even know if they're still alive, still here, but he doesn't care. He does whatever he's asked, and once he's finally alone again inside his own cell, he remembers and plots and let's his hate grow for the man who put them in this place. John Winchester. One day. One day he'll be able to get some kind of revenge.   
  
He has to believe that. If he doesn't, he's not sure he can make it through another damn day.   
  
Even though he knows the sound well, when his door opens again, he still flinches. There's only one reason that door opens.   
  
"Get up, angel. You're needed tonight. A VIP asked for your...services."   
  
Castiel shivers at that tone, feeling his skin crawl, but he moves anyway, head down as he's led to the showers. He's on auto pilot as he cleans himself and gets into the outfit that's laid out for him, following a nameless goon to the private rooms. A part of him wants to ask who he's going to be with, but he doesn't really care or want to know.   
  
A hand on his arm finally makes him look up and he wish he hadn't. Crowley's grin always makes him want to punch him in his smug face.   
  
"Cheer up, feathers. Gotta be on your game tonight. This is a very special guest, after all."   
  
"I don't care." Cas says quietly. He'll do his job, but he doesn't want names, doesn't care, and will not enjoy any second of this. That's one thing that Crowley can't make him do.   
  
"You should, Cas. It's Dean Winchester in there. Now go. I'll be watching, so make sure that you do your job well."   
  
Winchester.   
  
He's frozen, completely in shock. Not even Crowley would do this to him, would he? The name is ringing in his head, spinning, the angel unable to take that step through the door. Winchester. Not John, but didn't he have sons with him? Has it been that long? Why would anyone with that name come here to ask for him? What kind of torture is he in for now?   
  
He's still lost in his own head when someone behind him gives him a hard shove, Castiel sent tripping into the room, stumbling and landing on his knees at the feet of the man standing there waiting for him.   
  
Oh god he can't even look up. If he does and sees a face that he recognizes, even slightly, he doesn't know if he can hold back his anger.   
  
Fuck. He should be  _ dancing _ already. But he can't. He can't get up. Can't move. Can't  _ breathe _ .   
  
_ Winchester _ .

For years, the angel with the soft, magnificently blue eyes has haunted Dean’s dreams, the obsession with his guilt even extending far enough it seeped into his daily life, distracting him from his job, his duty to his father. He hadn’t taken the feathery creatures, hadn’t bound their wings with enchanted items to deny them a chance to break free and fly away, but he hadn’t done anything to stop it, to prevent his father from handing them over to the monsters. He’d been too young, too intrigued in the details that laid out in each feather, too hell bent on pleasing his father to voice his displeasure in their entrapment.    
  
He hadn’t been the one to steal their life’s away, no, but as he grew, he did nothing to ease his nightmares, to find the angel calling out for help. He was stuck under John Winchester’s thumb, and even though his father could see Dean was suffocating under the weight of all that’s been placed on his shoulders, he had faith he was strong enough to ignore it, had hope one day he would just shut off and ignore his emotions like John did himself.    
  
But that never happened, and the best he got was an emotionally fucked up kid who thrived when he harmed the ones he deemed bad, unworthy of anything but pain. Dean had turned into a monster just like his father, but in his twisted mind, he justified it by making himself  _ believe _ they deserved it. The supernatural who had done wrong. And his little brother Sammy was no different.    
  
He’d tried sheltering him, tried teaching him right from wrong but Sam was too much like their father, stumbled down the wrong path and now, a year after John Winchester’s death, he was captured in Crowley’s web and thriving in the pool of damned souls, living up to his father's expectations. And he was out of Dean’s reach.   
  
Not that the hunter has looked for him, or even attempted to after his month long Sammy investigation, where the upturned rocks led him to his black eyed brother. That wasn’t Sam anymore, and Dean decided he wasn’t Dean anymore, no longer had to follow his dad’s orders.    
  
So he began the hunt for the angel, for the one who’s soft voice was always just a whisper away. Eleven months later, with so much blood and lives in his hands, and here he stood, in a bar with flashing lights and grinding creatures standing before his eyes. Beaded curtains dangled in every doorway, blocking his vision from seeing anything beyond the single room unless he dares venture out of the booth he’d been led to.    
  
This was probably a dead end, yet another of so many, but he had a feeling, and with the feeling cane a strong sense of sureness that his angel,  _ the _ angel, was here, somewhere in this building, silently crying for help. And then it happened, a moment that stilled the very room, had every breath freezing in the lungs of all the occupants.    
  
The angel was led out, fragile wings bound behind his back, visible only to those who were cursed with such eyes. Dean happened to have his mothers eyes, the eyes who seen all they weren’t meant to, who could see the faces of the shapeshifters even though they were hidden behind a skin providing them a new identity. They seen all, even if he wished otherwise.    
  
The angel was beaten down, disheveled even if he tried to appear otherwise. His blue eyes were hidden, shoulders slumped forward and chin digging into his chest. He lacked pride, had it stolen from him years ago and it only showed in the way he allowed himself to be manhandled, in the way he so carelessly allowed his body to crumple to the floor with a single push forward. Now on his knees, unmoving, set the dream Dean has had, only now it was forming into his worst nightmare.    
  
“Hey,” he spoke soft, unsure, deep voice a raps that was swallowed in and echoless void, trampled by all the stomping feet in the room. “Are you alright?”

Cas flinches a little bit at the new voice. At Dean Winchester's voice, sounding louder than it probably is against the white noise that he's so very used to. He can't look up yet. Or at all maybe.

  
The question is one he hasn't been asked...ever. Not since he'd been bound by chains and spells, and he doesn't even know how to respond.   
  
Is alright even something that's possible here? He shakes his head and looks up for the first time into green eyes that hold so much. Pain, sorrow, darkness that Cas almost recognizes but isn't sure that he wants to.   
  
Most importantly he recognizes that face. It's changed, matured, aged, but he remembers everything about that day and he knows this boy.   
  
This man.   
  
Had it really been such a long time that he'd been here? He wants to cry. Wants to scream. All he can do is stare, his lips, dry and chapped and cracked forming words without his permission. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

The angel hadn’t aged a day, still appearing as magnificent as ever even with the harsh yellow lights beating down on him, lighting up the dirt smeared across his cheek, highlighting the pain in his eyes. The blue orbs were bottomless pits, meant to tell stories of comfort but Dean was swallowed by waves of pain, torturous as he fought against the single look, against the guilt he’d buried. 

Castiel was confused,  _ hurt,  _ but overall angry at the hunter sat before him and Dean knew he couldn’t voice what he was feeling, not with Crowley hovering only feet away, dark eyes pinned on the back of the angels head. The man kneeling in front of him wasn’t  _ alright _ , and Dean felt silly for even asking such a question. 

“To talk,” he said, eyes flickering to Crowley before they found Castiel's once again. He was trying to communicate without words, was trying to telepathically tell the angel to move, to do anything but  _ kneel _ and he realized it was to no avail when Castiel simply spread his knees a little further. He wasn’t here for  _ that _ , even if he’d paid a pretty penny for the promise of an unforgettable night, a life changing event. 

The thought made his stomach roll. 

“Will you take a seat, please? I’d rather not talk down to you,” was what Dean said when, truthfully, he was uncomfortable with the concept that Castiel was so used to being  _ used _ that he didn’t know how to hold an actual conversation anymore, didn’t know how to communicate beyond blow jobs and lap dances. He was confused by a simple question, couldn’t understand Dean wasn’t here to  _ hurt  _ him.

Something John Winchester assured would happen when he insisted Dean came along that night. “ _ Come on, boy _ ,” he’d said, “ _ this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Angels haven’t been seen for thousands of years, and possibly won’t be seen for another thousand _ .” And he’d been right, only left out some truth. Angels hadn’t been seen because they were going  _ to extinct.  _ All because men like Crowley got their rocks off by manhandling such fragile creatures, killing them off one by one until finally, few were left to roam the earth. 

"Can't ask them, Winchester." Crowley says from the doorway, dark eyes on the human even as he reaches out into what appears to be mid-air, finding the trails of the binding spells and gripping them tightly, twisting his fist with an oily grin. "They don't understand anything but force, especially this one." It's a test, mostly for Dean. Castiel knows what's going on after all.

  
The instant that Crowley's hand touches the binding magic, Castiel can feel it like an electric shock twisting through his bones and down to his grace. It hurts enough to make the angel flinch and spread his thighs more.   
  
Dean had said that he wants to talk, but nobody comes to Castiel to talk. They come to say they fucked an angel. To brag. To take pictures of the mighty so subservient to a human. Dean's kind tones just confuse him and then Crowley's hand twists and he's fighting back a scream. Or tries to, but it bursts free after what feels like ages but is likely only a few seconds, if that long.   
  
"You have to give it orders, Dean." Crowley says finally letting go. "Cas, believe you were told to sit. Do I have to say it myself or are you going to be good?"   
  
The angel slumps forward when the pain ends, eyes wet with unshed tears. He won't cry in front of Crowley. Never again. "Y-yes Sir." Cas says quietly, moving on aching legs to stand and drop into the chair across from Dean, not quite able to meet his eyes anymore.

Dean flinches at Crowley’s voice, thick accent twining around his spine and licking at his core, demanding it felt the authority, the _ power _ Crowley had and he’d done nothing but speak. But Dean has a history with the man, a twisted history that dwindled down into nothing more than violence and finally sizzled into acceptance that they existed together. He knew exactly who Crowley was, and what he’d do to get his way.   
  
Even now, he remembers the day they met, could recall how easily Crowley had sparked his seemingly dormant anger. He tried to keep himself from being violent then, but his father was still alive and he’d insisted Dean fight. So he did. And he’d tackled the obnoxious, ridiculously short (then) demon to the ground. Of course, with all the stupid training his father had put him through since the day he’d learned to walk, Dean had easily pinned the thrashing creature in seconds, had his arm lifted, hand fisted and all, but he’d been knocked back with a simple wave of Crowley’s hand and that had been that.    
  
Not even a punch in, and he’d been trashed. But he’d gotten his revenge, and they’d finally come to an agreement. If they didn’t get in the other’s way, all was well. Except now, Dean was all too tempted to go back on the nonverbal agreement, having to watch helplessly as the angel struggles against the invisible bounds constricting tighter with every small movement.    
  
“Crowley,” Dean said, trying to keep the warning tone out of his voice but the man had noticed, had even humored it with raised eyebrows and a cheeky grin. The words were enough distraction that the angel was able to move and sit, jelly legs shaking enough Dean could feel the trembles vibrating the legs of the table.    
  
Reigning in the anger that had only been sparked enough for his fingers to curl in a fist, an obvious improvement he’s made since his fathers passing, Dean took in a deep breath and feigned ignorance. Rather than reacting, he offered a toothy grin. He couldn’t afford to look at the angel now, to defend him against his captor, not when he was this close, not when he was winning over Crowley’s trust. And one small glance at Castiel would bend Dean’s resolve and the would ensure they didn’t make it out of here alive.     
  
“Is there a room we can go to? Somewhere a little more... private?” And with the question, Dean produced a crinkled piece of paper, folded with a stack of cash sitting between the flaps.   
  
Sat on the dotted line was the only thing that meant more to Crowley than a few measly bucks. It was a human soul, pure, untainted, untouched by any and all evil. Sealing the promise with a few drops of blood, proving how pure the vessel was. He’d done little to nothing to come by the soul, had called in a few favors and apparently accumulating a soul in such condition was rare these days. Dean was guaranteed to receive what he asked for, if Crowley was truly soul hungry like all claimed him to be.

Crowley's eyes move to the contract for a brief second, an eyebrow raising just a little bit. "And how did you come by that? Can't be yours, too tainted. Or your brother's. Last time I heard he's Ruby's pet."   
  
A beat, Crowley's eyes moving to meet Dean's. "You don't want to sample the goods first? He's what you paid for, right? Unless you want to go somewhere private with him and I. Wouldn't be the first time I've had him." A little smirk as he watches the angel flinch at the idea of being used by Crowley again.

Dean shook his head, easily projecting a calm and well put together composure, acting like he was sure of his words, his decisions and actions, when he was really screaming on the inside, stomach twisting with an intense urge to remove the demon blade from beneath the waistband of his jeans, where it was tucked safely, handle hidden beneath his shirt, and drive it through Crowley’s heart. To get as much sick satisfaction was watching him die as Crowley got in watching the angel squirm, uncomfortable and thoroughly used; done. 

“I’m sure of what I want,” he said, hand moving to grab Castiel’s thigh for a show, hovering for just a tiny second before he closed his long, thick fingers around the flesh pulled taut over bones and squoze. To the disgusting man that Crowley was, he’d howl with pride and automatically assume Dean was a pig like him. But he was hoping Castiel would get the message, to sit still and shut up, not to give anything away, to appear as if he was uncomfortable with the touch and not actually leaning into the oddly gentle hands that belonged to a murderous Hunter. 

And he did. He flinched away before going still, wide eyes glued to the floor with his spine straight, feathered wings fluttering in a futile attempt to be freed. “I want an hour alone, with the angel. You’ve had your fun with him,” Dean said, fighting off a cringe as he smirked, playing an overplayed roll. “Now it’s my turn.” 

Cas flinches at the touch, yes, but not because it's rough, like he'd expected it to be. Or hard enough to bruise like it normally is when they grab at him. The touch is gentle and sends a spark all the way through his grace as well as over his pale, thin skin. He doesn't even hear the words Dean says, blue eyes wide and mouth falling open just a little bit. Maybe it's false reassurance, but it doesn't feel like it.   
  
Crowley chuckles, eyes moving back to the contract. A soul. It has to be. Not much else would get his attention and hold it, especially not with his favorite pet on the line here. "You have forty five, and then we talk. Payment first, Winchester."

Rolling his eyes as Crowley extended a hand for the agreed payment, Dean pulled the suitcase out from underneath the table that was full of cash he’d already counted before hand and handed it to the man. It was more than enough, was more than a person made in an entire year on minimum wage, but if Dean wanted the best in the business, the rarest, he knew he’d have to pay a pretty penny. And even as he watched the suitcase be handed off to a man behind Crowley after it was open and expected, he didn’t get that spark of guilt like he’d expected himself to, didn’t feel his stomach tense or heartbeat thrum as he watched his money walked away. 

He was too focused on the heartbeat vibrating his fingers through the only contact he had with the angel, fingers still curled securely around his thigh in what now was considered a protective gesture, a lay of claim. But Castiel was nobody’s, even if Crowley led himself to believe so. “50,” Dean countered, trying to seem greedy even though he’d have been just as content with a measly 6 minutes. All he truly needed was a few seconds. To explain. To help Castiel  _ understand.  _

That wasn’t him. That little boy he’d met all those years ago, had watched as he struggled to fight his dad off of the angels, wasn’t the man that sat next to him today. Dean had been a puppet, strings pulled taut for too many years by his father and truth be told, he’d spent his entire life waiting for that dark whisper from his puppet master, giving him instructions on what to do next and he was different now. Free. No longer confined by the definition his father gave him, the identity. He was a Winchester, but he wasn’t John’s son.

Crowley glances at the cash for a moment, trusting that his men will count it and tell him it's the proper amount. What he's interested in, however, is that contract. Dean will tell him where he got that before he leaves. Or he won't leave. At least not unscathed.   
  
"Forty." He says, his elegant eyebrow raising a little bit more. Dean isn't going to get a moment more than what the demon is willing to give, or spend any time with his angel without his say. The angel is his property, after all, legally bound. "Want to keep going? I can waste all the time you just bought, my boy. And that would just be a shame..."   
  
He sounds really torn up about it, too.

Tempted to waste the demons time, to drag this out and taunt him with the utter loss of control he has over the angel he’d just loaned out, temporarily or not, Dean instead tapped his fingers on the table, a chain sequence that had each nail tapping the wood surface one after another, and offered a toothy grin. “I’m sure you have something better to do than gawk over us, Crowley, so how about you just show us to our room and leave it at that?” Dean said. He had to get cocky, a little testy, otherwise the demon would know something was up. 

But he couldn’t challenge him enough to make him feel threatened. A cornered Crowley was a recipe for disaster. 

Dean eyed the men hovering around Crowley, making the two foot man appear even smaller amongst the bulky dead, but it was entirely amusing considering with a flick of his finger all would be disintegrated in this room. Crowley liked power, liked showing off, but he hated getting his fingers dirty. His little minions were exactly what he needed to add fuel to his centuries old ego, to give him that added leverage, making him appear defenseless before he suddenly struck. A true snake at heart. 

“Or would you rather a show?” Dean asked with a bushy brow raised, eyes never straying from Crowley’s. 

Castiel's eyes widen just a little bit at the thought of Crowley being there. The demon isn't gentle, and that's saying a lot, because even the kindest are cruel. He would try to make Dean understand he doesn't at all want Crowley touching him, but honestly, he's not sure the human even cares what he wants.   
  
Crowley chuckles and reaches out to oh so gently run his fingers through the dark feathers of Castiel's wings. "As much as I would enjoy it, I do have a business to run. Fifty minutes, Winchester, then you and I are going to talk. Follow me, there's a room where screams won't be heard." Crowley grins and turns, not checking if anyone is following. Of course they are.

There was the slight shift in his posture, the way the angel went from rigid to completely tense, eyes remaining fixated on the demon standing before them even if they remained unseeing, unblinking, blank and emotionless; void. A perfect way to hid his secrets, his inner fears. He didn’t want Crowley’s touch, didn’t crave it and still, after all these years,  _ feared it.  _ And watching the fingers brush through the feathers on the angel he’d done so wrong had Dean clenching his hand into a fist, half moon shapes imprinting his palm and soon flooding with the bright red crimson. The demon didn’t seem to notice this, however. Didn’t catch scent of the blood, nor the way Dean flinched and closed his hand  _ tighter.  _

He was simply given instructions and was trusted with the leash, given an opportunity only trusted to the highest of men in Crowley’s book and he wasn’t sure if he should be honored or listen to the disgust twisting in his lungs. “Look down, and just trust me,” Dean said in a harsh whisper in Castiel's ear, lips way too close to the angels soft lobe and with a jostled step forward, he was pulling away and straightening up, acting as if he’d said or done nothing as a guiding hand landed on the small of Castiel’s back. A soft pressure to assure him he wasn’t alone, that someone was here, someone who wouldn’t make him scream, wouldn’t use him despite the money he’d just paid that claimed otherwise. 

That wasn’t Dean. Even if he’d begged himself countless times to just  _ forget  _ about the brilliant blue eyes and  _ move  _ on. 

Cas wants to flinch away from Dean, from the leash, but the man is all but growling in his ear to stay quiet. To trust him. How can he do that? How can he trust anything from a Winchester? From a human after all these years.   
  
Still he does as he's asked, follows Dean, focused on that hand on his back. It doesn't feel slimy like Crowley's fingers do on his skin. Like most humans' touch does. And that's something he can't explain.   
  
Crowley heads down a staircase and pulls out a key ring, opening a door near the end of a darkened hallway and stepping back so Dean can take his borrowed angel. "Have fun, but no lasting scars. He needs to stay pretty or I can't sell him as often. Be good, angel, and I'll reward you."   
  
His tone is enough to say exactly what that reward is and Cas flinches again as the door shuts with a snap and he's left alone with Dean Winchester. With the reason that he's been in this hell for so long.

The room is dark, dungy almost, reducing the image Crowley has set for his establishment to nothing more than an image from a crack house. From the ceiling hung a low light, dangling from a few single wires exposed to the harsh yellow glow. The walls were cement, stained with brown that had since faded into a rustic color, and he knew immediately it was blood. Blood from those not treated kindly, blood from possibly even Castiel. 

His screams stained the walls, echoed within the thin pillows that set on the plush looking bed that was hiding the reality. It was a thin board, barely passing for a mattress with exposed springs and stains littering the white sheets. The blanket was scratchy, transparent with holes marking the once perfect, but now century old, material. It was sad to think an angel, thought so highly upon and now so rare people would pay millions for even a glance, was reduced to this; a room that scream torture where the very walls begged to be set free. 

They’d seen to much. Witness too many deaths at the hands of cruel monsters. 

“I’m not like them,” Dean snarled before he even realized he was speaking, feeling the sudden urge to bite his growing anxiety in the ass, the images his own brain planted in his mind cruel beyond belief. Nobody deserves this. Castiel least of all. And if not for the fact he was already smoldering ashes left in the forest, Dean would have killed his father the moment he left this place. 

Castiel’s fear was now creeping over him, feeling like a thousand ants were doing a relentless march over his prickly skin. “This-I’m a Hunter,” he said in a defeated breath, trying to destroy Castiel's ruined image of him, “but I’m not my father. I’m not… im  _ not  _ these men.” And he was defending himself, but for what reason? What did he honestly hope for? 

Dean snaps and Castiel instantly moves as far as the leash will allow him to,trying to make himself small. This room is all too familiar to him. It's not the one he's kept in when he's not performing, but it's close. At least this one has more than just a threadbare mattress on a rusty frame.   
  
Dean says he isn't the same, but that's what they all say to him. And then the pain starts, and Dean looks angry. Looks like he wants to hit something. Tear something open.   
  
Usually Cas is that something.   
  
"Why did you come here?" He asks quietly, almost afraid to draw attention to himself in the small space.

The anger recedes as quickly as it came, Leaving Dean bare and exhausted, making it so he had nothing more to offer than the cold hard truth. He’d once wished he could be a savior, a knight on a pretty white horse, but his storyline didn’t match up to that. He was an idiot in crinkled tinfoil, playing the victim when he’d done nothing to change his storyline. Nothing to change the path his father had set for him. Well, nothing until it was too late and every impression he’d ever made was set in stone.

To Castiel, he was the hunter who helped take him. Who sentenced him to this life on earth where his body was treated like nothing more than a sack of potatoes, to be used, abused, thrown around as they pleased and washed for the next buyer. But was it fair he tried seeing himself as something else? Refusing to take blame even if it skittered along every single muscle in his body. His brain didn’t acknowledge it, at least not right now. Where he was so close to losing himself, to lose control. 

“To help you,” he answered honestly before doing a quick once over of the room. There was nothing in here, no security cameras or anything that scream mundane security. But to assure their safety, their privacy, Dean dropped the leash before he took a careful step backwards and disappeared into the shadows of the room. Blending in so the only thing Cas could see was the silhouette of a man he didn’t trust. 

Lifting a hand to request silence, or demand with a soft ‘sh’ that whispered out between squished lips, Dean knicked the palm of his hand with the demon blade and wasted no time once the blood began to roll down the length of his fingers. He drew the symbol he knew by heart, meant to protect their privacy from supernatural invaders. Not even archangels could break through it, giving them only a short window of time to talk without the fear that Crowley was listening in. 

“I have a short amount of time, Castiel, but believe me. I’m here to help you. I have- I have people here, we have a plan. All of you trapped here can get free, but I need your trust.” And the hunter knew that was a lot to ask, especially after their history. 

"A plan?" Cas asks quietly, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the symbol on the wall. It's nothing like he's ever seen before and honestly he's expecting it to start hurting him at any moment now. "Why would you help me? You sold me. Your family. Your ...leader." Cas says, searching for the right words.   
  
Trust isn't easy with this human especially, or any of them, but Dean mentioned freedom. Said he's here to help. God. What would freedom even feel like now? What would it be for an angel who had spent his life in chains the last however long. What would he do without his family? "Why should I trust you?"

“You shouldn’t,” Dean said, unaware of the truth that bled out in his words until he was left staring wide eyed at Castiel. He didn’t want the angels trust, didn’t want that power and end up abusing it or breaking it because he would. He was John Fucking Winchester’s son, after all, and all he’d learned from that man was to use everything he could to get what he wanted. Even if it hurt the innocence. 

“You shouldn’t trust me, but trust that I’m not my father. I was- I was a kid, Cas. I couldn’t stop him. I-“ And enough with using excuses about his past, about his mistakes, Dean palmed at his face and remembered when Sam had, once upon a time, told him Angels didn’t respond well with words. They responded to actions, to feelings, and before Dean could register in his mind what was going on, he was inbounding the twine from around the angels wings, freeing it of the magic suppressing his powers, and lifted the angels shaking hand to his cheek before pressing the soft palm against his stubble covered skin. “Feel it, me. See if I’m lying- or if what I’m saying is true. Believe that I’m not John.” 

The rush of power that fills him up in an instant is dizzying, makes the angel gasp and tremble as much as it does when Dean takes his hand and presses it against his skin.   
  
It's a moment that feels like it lasts forever, Castiel's blue eyes wide on the human. If he wanted to, he could burn the very soul from Dean, turn his brain to liquid, could blast him through the walls around them. Snap his neck without breaking a sweat.   
  
It's pure trust that the human placed in him not to do that. To look into his mind instead and find the truth.   
  
He closes his own eyes and reaches into Dean. And while it only takes a heartbeat to the man, to the angel he's watching the man's childhood. A controlling, mentally abusive father, and  oh seeing John again makes him want to pull away from it all...   
  
Instead he looks deeper, seeing the world from Dean's eyes as he grows under the oppression of John Winchester. Is molded into something that he himself hates and is desperate to make up for.   
  
That's why he's here at all. To try and make up for mistakes that he had no real control over. And that's enough for Cas to, if not trust Dean, trust his motivation.   
  
He opens his eyes and searches Dean's face for a moment before pulling his hand away. "I believe you."   
  
He may not trust Dean, he may never really, but the man wants him free. So for the moment, they're aligned.

Dean wasn’t sure how he knew the exact moment that it happened, it was just a little buzz beneath his skin, licking at his spine as electricity swirled around his brain. He could feel Castiel reach, could feel as the angel dove deeper into his mind but it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

He had faith the angel wouldn’t hurt him, or chose to believe he couldn’t be hurt worse than he’d allowed Castiel to be over the course of the past few years.

And just as quick as it began, it was over and Castiel was pulling away, the tethers of his mind unraveling from around Dean and leaving him naked, bare, nothing left to hide now that every dark secret in his brain has been discovered; seen. He was a monster for many reasons, just not the reason Castiel initially thought.

“Your siblings,” Dean began, voice hoarse as he struggled to grasp reality and not get lost in the white static left behind in Castiel’s absence. “They’re still alive, but they’re held at Crowley’s other establishments.” Ones he hardly visited. He’d never admit this out loud, couldn’t stomach the thought let alone feel as the words rolled off his tongue like acid, but Crowley favored Castiel for reasons he wished not to know. The feathered man was his prized possession, and it was rare he let him leave his side. 

This was going to be hard, but not impossible. And it was at the mention of the siblings, still alive and well, that a gust of wind washed over Dean and Castiel’s eyes flared bright. 

The angels powers were growing.

And he was pissed. 


End file.
